


Only Me

by Slashy Goodness (allmadhere)



Series: Kink Bingo [7]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, Other, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmadhere/pseuds/Slashy%20Goodness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/">kink bingo</a>, orgasm denial/control square. So many thanks to <a href="http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=jediiwakara"><img/></a><a href="http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=jediiwakara"><b>jediiwakara</b></a> for the beta. Any further mistakes are my own.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Only Me

**Author's Note:**

> For [kink bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), orgasm denial/control square. So many thanks to [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=jediiwakara)[**jediiwakara**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=jediiwakara) for the beta. Any further mistakes are my own.

He lays back on the hotel bed and tries to make himself comfortable, staring up at the ceiling and unfocusing, unwinding, undoing, until he's not entirely sure that he's Pete anymore. It's nice to be rid of the mask for now. Pete Wentz is a figment, a construct, a role to which he's become so adept at that he can't remember when the person behind it had been lost. He isn't Pete Wentz; he couldn't be, wouldn't be... But what did that leave him with?

He shucks off the still sweat-damp clothes, needing them away from his skin before they burn their way in and mark him as Pete Wentz forever no matter what he does. His fingers drift over the slightly raised skin of the tattoos, characters and words and symbols he doesn't know if he chose or Pete chose. Maybe it's already happened and there's no turning back.

He can't accept that and lays back again, breathes slow and deliberate. He can practically feel the shifts in perspective and personality to this... whatever it is. This solace he only achieves when he is actively not being Pete, not submerging himself in the too-fast, too-fake world of celebrity Pete glories in, the vast and deadly playground full of sharp pretty glass shards. It's not blank or a white space per-say. He has no idea what it is. Someone else surely has better words for it but he never remembers to ask when he's pretending to be Pete and no one sees him when he's this.

He pushes the thoughts away and lets his eyes close, mind drifting out to sea and past the strings holding him together and poised. He places his hands over his chest to feel his heartbeat, a perfected rhythm slowed to just the right tempo to simple be and exist. One hand drifts upwards, over his lips and just barely grazing them. The tingle makes his next breath shudder out and it's almost enough to make him want to pull away and divert his attentions, but he stays. He chases the tingle, the shudder, runs the tracks too many times to count until he wobbles off on an inhaled breath.

His fingers fall into his mouth and skim his tongue and even that makes him shiver all over. His breathing hitches sharply as his tongue moves around the digits, dancing between, around, over, through. His eyelids begin to flutter and his fingers try to catch the movement, leaving his mouth with an obscene pop that rings in his ears to skim wetly over his cheek in a rapidly cooling trail.

The brush of his lashes over the drying pads of his fingers is so light that it feels like a breeze after rain in fall. He exhales a sigh and brings them down along his nose and back to his lips. He dives straight inside this time to suck on them and his back rises from the bed with the gasp. He swallows and exhales even slower than he has before now. Out, over his chin, down his throat, presssing softly into his sinking Adam's apple, along his protruding collarbones, across his pectoral, into his other hand and then he's flat against the bed again. He sighs; breathes, breathes, breathes; counts the snail-paced rises and falls of his own chest.

His hands move apart, spread and mirrored with palms flat. They move like a sea parting in slow motion and rise up onto their fingertips. He can't touch his nipples, can't graze and pinch and tug like he knows a part of him wants. It's Pete; Pete wants to do this like it's a sprint and Pete has to finish first, always has to finish first, _needs_ to finish first. He knows this - he knows, he knows... and he stops. He simply breathes again, up into the eight points of slight pressure and down into the bed against him. Up, down, up down, up down up, down, up.

His hands move again on the exhalation, still only lightly gliding tips with a fraction of pressure. They skate down his chest to his stomach. They don't deviate or meander, not quite yet, as they skirt the trail of hair there and slide down to his side and back up. They bump lightly over his ribs, and his arms tremble, but he just breathes; lets them climb up below his armpits and he's back where he started. He has to force himself to wait and let his breath come slow, even, natural, calm.

Then he does it again. Waits.

Again. Waits.

Again. His ring finger butts into his left nipple, deviates. Pete did it, and he has to bite hard into his bottom lip to keep from crying out. Has to arch up to keep the fire kindling under his skin from making the bed catch alight. He lifts the offending finger, stays frozen there until he can breathe right again and relaxes slowly, and lets the finger fall. It grazes the nipple again but he breathes and he's okay.

He lets his hands go flat and covers the hardened, pointed nubs with his palms. His fingers can just touch each other and he lets that ground him. Slow control, it's what he needs and what he has. He inhales, pulls his hands apart, and the slow drag nearly does him in but he breathes and keeps going until only his fingertips linger, then just the middle finger. Exhales and waits.

Inhales and presses against the light pressure as his fingers circle in tandem, wide at first but closer, closer, closer with each pass until... He circles away, not as far as he started, but away. Then back in, brushing gently at his nipples this time. His breath catches and his entire body shivers, his cock brushing his stomach as he inhales and he hadn't even known he was erect. It's too much, too soon. He collapses into the bed panting with his hands flat against his chest and his heart is too fast under his left hand. It slows as he breathes in, out, in out in, out in, out, in, out, in.

He switches tactics. His hands slide down his body, over his stomach, down to his thighs. His nails scratch lightly as the muscles under the skin move and twitch and chase. He breathes and trails back up past his shoulders and under the pillows.

The lube is first, a tiny bottle he's ripped the labels from but he knows it. Flip of the cap and he pours just enough into his palm, warms it and slicks his fingers. He can't control the shuddering of his breath now as he trails down his body just a bit too fast, skating just above the skin and past the heat practically radiating from his cock. He teases over his balls, lets a finger drift over them with only the barest touch, follows the curve, drags along the skin behind and around the tight coil of muscle after. He exhales and slows, inhales and circles, exhales and presses in gently.

He turns his head to the side, buries his face into the sheets and screams, it's too fucking much. His cock twitches and his entire body tenses and he has to stop. He's panting and his heart's racing. He removes the finger and centers himself again, breathes, floats. He tries again, no teasing this time, lifts his hips and presses up into himself. He fucks himself slowly on the finger; slips in another, remembers to breathe, stretches himself gently and patiently. He keeps the rocking of his hips slow as he scissors his fingers, crosses them, adds another.

His free hand is under the pillows and pulls out a satin bag as he works. He forces himself to go slowly and gently pull away the strings holding it closed. The toy he pulls out is black rubber and curved like a C and a quick fit of impatience makes him toss the bag off the side of the bed, ignoring it as it slides off the sheets to hit the floor without a sound. He places the toy on his chest, breathes and slows himself down again.

He inhales, plants his feet in the plush mattress, arches off the bed, removes his fingers, exhales. Breathes in and drags the toy down, down, down, then off of his hip, stopping between his raised hips and the bed. Breathes out, and presses it gently to his entrance. Breathes, breathes, breathes and slows the world down to the right pace again.

He exhales and presses in, slow, and his thighs are shaking by the time its crook is firmly against his ass and spending sparks shooting behind his eyelids. In out, in out, in out, in out, in out, in out, and he turns it on. The breath he sucks in burns at his lungs and stays. He forces it out, hissing through his teeth as he lowers himself back against the mattress.

He breathes, shuddering yet evenly paced, and simply lets himself feel for a moment. He clenches slow around the intruding toy, shivers as he brings the low-end vibrations closer and pressing into his prostate. Releases; does it again.

He breathes in and drags a feather-light touch over his cock. He shudders out a breath, shakes all over, removes his hand and lays it on his stomach. He can feel the expansion-contraction of his breaths better here, can focus on them rather than on his almost painful erection - just an inch away, dripping like a leaky faucet. He takes it loosely in hand, and pumps in time with his breathing. Up on the inhale and pulling the toy deeper, rubbing against his prostate. Down on the exhale and pushing into the mattress, hissing out the tail end of the breath through his teeth.

He's so, so close, peering over into a bright oblivion and tottering at the very edge. He pulls himself back, steps away, stops, only to lean over again and totter helplessly. It's his lips all over again, a repetitive exercise done again and again, again and again until he slips, arches, moans mid-breath, mid-pull. His orgasm feels ripped from his very core, pulled and pulled until nothing's left, and he falls back spent.

He gasps for air, staring up at the ceiling for long hazy minutes until the hum of the vibrator makes his muscles tense and that heat coil tick in his stomach. He reaches down, turns it off, removes it gently, closes his eyes, and breathes.

He lets out a final slow breath and stands on shaky legs. He collects the vibrator, bag, lube and takes them into the bathroom with him. He cleans the toy careful, letting it dry as he showers and tucking it away as soon as he's done. He walks out with a towel wrapped around his waist and buries everything deep in his bag. Tour's almost over, he won't need it again.

Pete's head snaps up when he hears a hard knock on the door, Patrick's voice on the other side telling him they're back from the diner they went to, making sure he's okay. Pete yells back a quick reply, blames some bad food in catering, tells Patrick not to worry. Pete frowns at the messy and stained sheets, resolving to spend the night in someone else's bed so it doesn't have to be a problem until someone has to clean. With a shit-eating grin, Pete dresses fast and sneaks out faster, texting Andy on the walk down the hall to let him know to give a wake-up call come morning so he doesn't miss the buses. The text back is curt: a warning, and Pete ignores it entirely to flap a hand at the concierge and stride quickly and confidently out the front door. Pete could almost laugh when the hired car stops smoothly in front of the finest club the city offers, security nodding, every star-fucker appraising, cameras flashing and blinding. This world, Pete's world, is his, and his playground.


End file.
